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Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.

293. Joy, Shipmate, Joy!

JOY! shipmate—joy!

(Pleas’d to my Soul at death I cry;)

Our life is closed—our life begins;

The long, long anchorage we leave,

The ship is clear at last—she leaps!

She swiftly courses from the shore;

Joy! shipmate—joy!